Table Of ContentI Am To Tell You This
And I Am To Tell You It Is Fiction
Jeremy Vaeni
Kynegion House
Kynegion House
Copyright © 2020 by Jeremy Vaeni
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced,
scanned, or distributed in any print or electronic form
without permission.
First Edition: September 2020
Foreword Copyright © 2020 by Jeffrey J. Kripal
“Joy In Repetition,” written by Prince, released in 1990 by
Paisley Park Records & Warner Bros. Records.
Find the author on the web: https://www.ourundoing.com
Cover Design: Jeremy Vaeni
Printed in USA
!2.
Special Thanks
Though it is not my intention to injure any of my friends,
family, or people who put up with me, with guilt by
association, I must thank the following people for making this
book come alive:
John Randall for his tireless dedication to his art. This
book does not work without you! Best. Illustrator. EVER.
Jeffrey Kripal for the amazing, humbling foreword and
proofreading, neither of which I asked for, both of which I
greedily accepted. Thank you.
Tyler Kokjohn for making his serious writing contribution
knowing full well I’d turn it into a joke and probably harm his
reputation in the process. (Oh, wait, you didn’t know that?
Eh, you’ll be fine.) Also, for his editing input.
Carol Fong for her thoughtful input throughout and for
putting up with a husband in writer mode. More importantly,
for rescuing me from being the pathetic guy in this book! You
are my heart, my bunny, a true partner, and I love you.
Elaine Randall for her fine editing suggestions.
Nancy & Bill Birnes for letting me keep the rights to my
UFO Magazine articles. Also, for lighting the fuses of several
projects, including my documentary, No One’s Watching: An
Aliens Abductee’s Story, which figures heavily in this book for
no apparent reason.
Also, thanks to Tiokasin Ghosthorse, George Hansen, Carl
Jung, Jeff Kripal, Jiddu Krishnamurti, Dennis McKenna, Jeff
Ritzmann, Whitley Strieber, Jacques Vallee and any other
genius I’m forgetting, whose style, substance, and inspiration
are glaringly obvious in these pages.
!3.
Foreword
What Jeremy Vaeni Can Teach Us
(After We Stop Laughing)
“
It’s no exaggeration to say that I am science
fiction: one part tentacle monster, three parts
futurist, all too human. . . . the only fact we
may discern about abductions is that something
is happening that we cannot experience directly
because we filter it through our own fiction,
composed of stories, assumptions, and
visualizations conjured in fear.
- Jeremy Vaeni
Jeremy Vaeni is my teacher. I first met him in Hawaii the
second week of December, 2016. He had generously invited a
trio of us for a conference entitled “The Living Mysteries
Symposium.” The science fiction writer and alien visionary
Whitley Strieber, the ethnopharmacologist and psychedelic
explorer Dennis McKenna, and I were the head-liners. Okay,
Whitley and Dennis were the head-liners. I am not sure what
I was doing there, but I was there, for sure, I suppose mostly
talking about Whitley.
But still.
!4.
My first encounter on the island was appropriately a bit
strange. The frick’n sky was glowing orange. It was night. I
was tired. I just got off what seemed like an infinite plane
ride. For some reason that was not entirely clear to me,
Dennis was driving us toward the glow in the sky, up a
mountain no less, which seemed, to me anyway, like a rather
dubious idea. Then we got there, to a parking lot of a
restaurant perched above an active volcanic crater. The
orange glow in the sky, it turned out, was a reflection on the
clouds of the bubbling red lava in the crater. “Geezus. This
place is nuts,” I thought to myself. “And pretty awesome.”
Jeremy tells me that the volcano exploded in 2018. I am not
surprised. It looked pretty bubbly in 2016.
The three of us told Jeremy not to do this, I mean, try to
hold this conference. We knew it was expensive to fly us all
half-way across the Pacific, and that he would likely lose
money on the event. He did it anyway. Jeremy was like that:
generous, kind, and supportive. It was a great deal of fun,
and I really enjoyed my first and only visit to Hawaii, which
ended with a five-day road trip around the Big Island with
Dennis McKenna at the wheel of a mini-van with our mutual
Houston friends Jerry and Linda Patchen. I have since
associated Jeremy with a kind of laid-back wisdom or grace,
a slowly exploding island of flowing lava and dubious real
estate investments (have you ever seen what cooled black
lava will do to a piece of land, much less a house?), and a
McKennaesque tour of the Big Island.
Not bad.
!5.
But I have also read Jeremy Vaeni, and here my
associations become something else, as I read him in a long
line of nondual and idealist visionaries, none of whom, I must
add, sounded anything like Jeremy Vaeni. Except for Bill
Hicks. Hicks, not unlike Jeremy, was an American mystic
posing as a comedian. Jeremy reminds me of Bill Hicks, who
could get very metaphysical on his otherwise raunchy stage
and just blurt out things, like how we are all the temporary
imaginings of a single immortal consciousness. He also had
some pretty elaborate UFO encounters. Not exactly your
typical stand-up, but oh so Jeremy Vaenish. Or maybe
Jeremy is Bill Hicksish. Same thing.
Back to this book. There are four motifs I most associate
with Jeremy’s writing: (1) human deification (Jeremy is God,
or better, God has manifested through Jeremy); (2) bizarre
energy effects in the spine, brain, and physical environment,
which were somehow connected to human sexuality; (3)
apparent alien abduction, which was somehow connected to
human sexuality; and (4) humor, which is definitely
connected to human sexuality. Jeremy thinks I am obsessed
with sex. This is what we call projection.
I often confess to my graduate students that there is a
reason I am a Freudian and not a Marxist. It is this: I have
never met a funny Marxist, and I have met plenty of very
funny Freudians (Freud himself is another matter). I also
often tell anyone who will listen to me that there is a simple
rule for whether or not to trust a particular spiritual
message: humor. If people can laugh at their own sincere
!6.
beliefs, there is every reason to trust them; if they cannot,
beware. Humor, after all, is a kind of humble transcendence
or reflexivity. One cannot laugh at something one has not
stepped beyond, or at least imagined beyond. One instead
becomes deadly serious, stuck, and dangerous.
The thing about Jeremy Vaeni is that he can and will
laugh at just about anything, even things you definitely don’t
want him to laugh about. Which might mean that Jeremy is
truly trustworthy. But it might also mean that Jeremy’s
humor is functioning sometimes as a kind of defense
mechanism (to keep him from taking seriously what actually
happened to him—hey, it’s not so easy being God, especially
when you are writing an email to your mom, which he has
also done, or tried to do1). But Jeremy is perfectly aware of
the defense mechanism thingy, and he often says the same.
No one seems to take him seriously. Jeremy Vaeni doesn’t
even take Jeremy Vaeni seriously.
But I do. Do you want to know why I so admire Jeremy,
why I listen and read him, and why he is my teacher?
Because he makes me laugh and then think again about that
laughter. Laughter is not just a defense mechanism here. It is
also what he is trying to get us to see, or to be. Jeremy is my
teacher because he makes me think that maybe all those
previous deified human beings in the history of religions took
themselves way too seriously, didn’t have to die like that, and
certainly didn’t have to be tortured by their unfunny, much
too serious contemporaries and then get gory theologies
1 Unsent email draft made public in blog post, “How Not To Tell Your Mom
You’ve Solved Aliens And Are God,” on www.jayvay.com.
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wrapped around their unfunniness. It’s really sort of morbid,
if you think about it. And unnecessary.
Jeremy is also my teacher because he knows what he is
saying is so unbelievably serious that he has to hide behind
the laughter to endure it and then to say it in a way that also
unsays it. It, of course, will largely escape most of Jeremy’s
readers (“the five of us left who read,” anyway, as he puts it
in one of his gazillion great one-liners). “It,” after all, is not an
“it.” It’s more of a No-Thing, a Oneness that includes to
transcend, an uncanny Other that is also oneself, or Oneself,
a oneness of multidimensional being, as the Mystery Voice
puts it toward the end of the book as the laughter subsides.
But maybe the laughter doesn’t really end. Maybe the
comedy routine is more than it seems. This is my deepest
hunch. What we finally have in these pages is a paradoxical
place between fact and fiction, levity and levitation, a kind of
metaphysical science fiction that is always unwriting itself.
Or just laughing at itself.
Laugh out loud, then, but do not be deceived by your
laughter. You are laughing at yourself, which means you are
not really you anymore, even if you are also still you.
Jeffrey J. Kripal
Houston, Texas
26 August 2020
!8.
06/24/2004
Dear L:
I apologize that I am reckless with the tenses in this recital,
but such is the rawness of a dream and the laziness of this
writer.
This morning I was having a long, involved, semi-sexual
dream about various imaginary women who all represented
my ex-girlfriend. It essentially was a breakup dream. When I
walked out of it and closed the door I found myself in the
hallway of an apartment building. The walls were painted
glossy brown and the hand railing was a darker, un-glossed
brown.
I walked down the stairs as a blonde couple in their late
twenties/early thirties walked up. The staircase was narrow,
typical of New York apartment buildings, and there was a
brown-haired bearded fellow of the same age range sitting in
our way. The couple and I struggled to get by. When we finally
passed, I realized I was asleep and that this was a dream. At
first I couldn’t wait to leave the building and see what I could
do in this dream world, but then I thought, No. Let these people
know you’re awake.
!9.
I’ve woken into dreams before. In those instances I’d let the
dream characters know I was awake. They would inevitably
pretend to not understand what I was talking about but I’d
keep badgering them until they’d cave. Their attitude would
change immediately from dumbfounded commoners into
seething fury. It always goes this terrifying way. It feels as if
these dream characters are just the façade for some demonic
force, some human-hating guardians whose job it is to keep the
dreamer from seeing what lies beyond the sleep state.
I gently grabbed the blonde man at the elbow and said, “I’m
asleep.” He looked taken aback. I repeated myself—I’m asleep—
and the bearded man stood up. Suddenly, the two blondes and
the brunette are friends with each other, sarcastic friends
taunting me. They walk toward me backing me against a wall.
The color scheme remains the same but the scenery
changes in that we’re now on the top floor of this apartment
building. The hallway is no longer a narrow staircase but a
large rectangular room, the center of which is a rectangular
stairwell protected by those same brown wooden guardrails.
This hole is the majority of the room. The long walls are lined
with doors, presumably to apartments, and I cannot yet see
what is at the end opposite me.
I feel intimidated by the trio crowding me, yet bold
nonetheless. I refuse to let fear stop this again, as it has in the
past. I ask them—but primarily the blonde man who seems to
be the leader—if they are real people or characters in my head.
Do they exist independently of me? This is a nagging question
